Iceland's Birthday Cake
by MekkaBabble
Summary: And Iceland wonders why he's never invited to any parties...
1. A prologue

_A/N: There's some stuff in here I should apologize in advance for. As always, expect a handful of off color jokes. If you take issue, shoot me a private message and we'll talk it out. Otherwise…_

* * *

_364 days ago…_

The Nordics sprawled throughout Norway's living room in varying states of inebriation. The room was decked out in a patriotic red, white, and blue with a banner reading 'Happy Birthday, Norway!' as the focal point. Said country bubbled with undiluted joy as he admired his pile of presents.

"A subscription to 'beer of the month'! Thank you, Denmark! It's almost as good as that raffle ticket you gave me for the North Sea."

Denmark scraped a wad of vanilla-cod frosting off his paper plate and stuck it in his mouth. "Anything for you, Norway. A new case will be delivered to your door every thirty days. Just remember to share."

"And Finland," Norway went on. "The Skittle vodka's so colorful and pretty… and one bottle for each flavor! I'll take my time drinking it."

Finland gave the other a thumbs-up around his own liquor bottle and passed Norway a card reading 'Shoot the rainbow'. Then he returned to his place next to their completed game of 'Pin the Viking longboat in the Irish harbor'.

Not to be outdone, Sweden chimed in too. "You can use the new iCan I gave you to test the toxicity of your other gifts. It'll also tell you exactly what you want to drink, how much, and really decide anything you want to do before you know yourself." True to his words, Norway's brand new state of the art toy- a sleek, aluminum can manufactured by none other than Apple- blinked its consent. Not only would do anything Norway wanted if he smiled at it _just right,_ it would also gauge his thoughts and feelings and react accordingly. All with one button. At the moment, it glowed a pleasing and soft green.

"Thanks so much for such a wonderful birthday guys! This has really been one of the best." Norway said.

"Glad you had fun." Sweden said. He tapped the face of his watch with furrowed brows. "But I ought to go. I told Åland I'd feed him Swedish meatballs tonight whether he wanted them or not."

Denmark opened his mouth to call Sweden out on his unintentional porn, but no one had the chance to say or do much of anything as two svelte sparkly hands landed on Norway's shoulders from behind.

"We _can't _end it yet! We're forgetting something." Iceland lifted off Norway and stood on the back of the sofa with the well-practiced balance of someone who dabbled in every sport too dangerous to be included in the regular Olympics.

With a well-disguised shudder, Norway gave his head a few slow shakes. "Nope. We've had cake, played games, opened presents, drank ourselves stupid, and slapped each other sober. It's time we call it a night."

"Yes you are." Iceland singsonged. He curled forward over his brother's head so that their noses nearly touched. Miraculously, somehow, in spite of being mostly upside down not one strand of Iceland's hair came out of place. When Norway offered no answer, the youngest Nordic vaulted off the couch and landed feet first on the rug.

All eyes landed on Iceland as snatched a cube wrapped to mimic Norway's flag (accented by holographic sparkles of course) from the coffee table and held it aloft. The iCan pulsed red. Iceland fluffed the white and blue bow. "You forgot to open my gift!"

"Yes… forgot." Norway mumbled. He searched for ways to stall. His first thought was to soothe his own anxiety by instead focusing on Denmark's. But as per Murphey's Law, his historically reactive best friend found nothing amiss and sat calm as ever, poking at the remainder of his frosting pile. He then looked to Sweden as surely he'd want to put an end to whatever horror awaited them beneath the cheery wrapping, but the other country was too busy watching Finland watch the Skittle vodka. And Finland watched Iceland through the Red 40 flavored liquor and seemed in no hurry to rush to Norway's aid, either.

"You shouldn't have." He finally said to Iceland. "You really, really shouldn't have-"

"But you're my favorite brother." Iceland interrupted, pushing the package into Norway's hands. Taking the size and scope of their family into consideration; that actually meant something.

And that's how guilt works.

Norway took a long, difficult swallow then resigned himself to his fate. He accepted his final gift with great misgivings and raised a silent prayer to St. Asbjörn. A single bead of sweat crawled off his forehead and down the side of his face as he pulled off the ribbon and tore at the paper to reveal a cardboard box. The intensity of Iceland's sparkles increased incrementally as the moment crept closer where Norway would reveal its contents.

And when he finally did, the screams shook the house. Denmark saw It and shrieked out some previously undiscovered soprano notes. Finland jumped backwards and whipped out his phone to tap out a hastily composed text message. Sweden's phone buzzed too. The iCan shut itself off.

"Hey guys, Finland's calling me. I should really take this call and see what he wants." Sweden said in a thin lie as he bolted out the front door.

Finland downed the contents of his bottle shook his head, gestured to the front door, and ran away himself.

Norway looked at Denmark. Denmark looked at Norway. Both countries looked at Iceland, who looked at Norway's final birthday present and beamed a smile that could've powered the continent for months.

"Do you like it?" Iceland asked expectantly.

Denmark rose to leave himself, but Norway grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him back down to a sitting position, and glued him to the sofa with a pleading stare.

"Is-is that really a… ah…" Denmark sputtered.

"A human hand!" Iceland took the severed appendage and molded it into a thumbs-up before presenting it to Norway. "Serbia left it buried in his yard! I wanted to get you two so you'd have bookends, but I thought that would be kind of creepy." He finished shyly.

"Don't you think this might belong to someone already?" Norway asked, his voice cracking.

Iceland used the hand to cup his chin. "I wouldn't worry about that too much. Whoever had it probably has a replacement claw by now. They won't miss it."

Denmark made a noise that could best be described as the vocalization of a case of the willies and literally burrowed into the space between Norway's back and the sofa. "Is this one of your jokes? Like when you showed us that Penis Museum?" He blurted underneath Norway.

"No." Iceland said, injured.

"T-thank you? Next time, just remember there's _absolutely_ _no need _to get me a gift." Norway tentatively offered. Iceland rebounded immediately and held out the hand for either member of his remaining audience to shake.

"No problem! Happy birthday!"

"Now can we please end this finally? Before that hand starts walking around on its fingers?" Denmark asked.

After that, Norway managed to diffuse the situation with a lot of unprecedented grace. He steered Iceland to the exit, thanked him again for his unique take on a birthday gift, slammed the door shut, locked it, snatched the purple flavored vodka, ran to his room, downed half of it, and left Denmark to puzzle out how to handle the hand. It was _his_ birthday after all.

And what's what happens when you have a brother with the social IQ of a potted plant.

_More to come..._


	2. Of Baking and Demons

The talks of a celebration were impossible to miss in a social circle that was five nations strong when only four spoke.

"It's Norway's birthday tomorrow!" Denmark and Sweden reiterated all day through multiple venues- text, facebook, e-mail. They even stooped down to reminding Iceland and Finland in person earlier. The party would be small, just like last year, as per Norway's preference. And, also like last year, Iceland entered neck-deep into planning mode… and mud. More mud than anything.

He laid out back in one of his milky blue hot springs, pasted with mineral-infused dirt from face to middle to let the stuff work its magic on his fine features. It's not like he sparkled so brightly without habitual preening and scrubbing. And since his brother survived yet another year, he owed it to Norway to look his best. As he reached that high pinnacle of relaxation, as the sulfur bubbles exploded on his albino skin, as he nearly slid his head under the water his phone interrupted him with some harsh buzzing.

"Mmmmm, hello?" Iceland mumbled.

There was a great deal of shouting on the other end, clear as the air prior to a volcano eruption. "I'm not going tell him… it was your idea to call… no, Sweden! Don't you dare make me talk… Hi, Iceland." Denmark's voice twitched.

"This had better be important. I'm exfoliating." Iceland said.

"It is."

"Still bitter you don't have me as your star colony? That the Kingdom of Denmark is now just you, a subsistence hunter, and a whaler homophobe? Like I've said before, you just need to get over it and move on." Iceland said.

"I never cared that you left to be honest. But neither herenorthere." Denmark quickly added. "It's about Norway's party tomorrow."

"Yes! While you're on the line, can I borrow some money to buy some fishing gear? I want to head out on a boat and catch him a shark or something later today, whatever I can pull out of the ocean. You know how he loves fish and what's better for him than a really, really big fi-"

"I'm not drunk enough to lend you money. I'm begging you on his behalf to not bring him a present." Denmark said.

"So what you're saying is I should pass you some Brennivìn?" Iceland said.

Denmark continued with well-practiced patience. "Do you know what happened last year, after you left?"

"Sure do!" Iceland sat up a little straighter and batted away a claw rising from the fissure in the earth that scraped at his face. "I checked in on Norway the next day and all that Skittle vodka was gone. I couldn't find him for a week… I didn't think he liked to party so hard. It must be your bad influence."

"That's because Norway made an emergency trip down south for some really awkward talks with Bosnia. Apparently, he'd been missing a hand." Denmark said.

Iceland made some non-committal, perplexed noises so Denmark took the initiative to end the conversation. "No present."

"But I can't show up empty handed." The island nation was crestfallen, but only for a second. "What if I brought something to eat?"

"Like a cake or something? Sure, that sounds pretty harmless. See you tomorrow." Denmark said.

And that's when the little devil that governed most of his actions whispered to Iceland that he had it in him to be a world-class chef. That no one ever argued with cake. That Norway would love him for expressing the awesomeness in the genes they shared.

After all, he'd made food before in the most nominal sense – boiling a sheep head, fermenting shark like fine wine, and not to mention the crisp winter nights he spent admiring the flaming aurora and toasting marshmallows atop a volcano. Baking was just about the same, right?

Iceland pinched his nose and slid beneath the glassy water to reemerge warm, clean, that much prettier, and ready to test his culinary prowess.

* * *

He didn't just walk into his kitchen. Plain old walking was for everyone else. He sashayed. He boogied. He worked the tile like it was a disco dance floor. Sparkles trailed him like his reputation as a complete and total badass. He even had one of his adorable yet diabolically evil little demons passaging behind him in time to the music pumping through his master's head. In other words, Iceland had the moves like Jagger.

"Are you ready help me bake, Hòlar? We'll make Norway a coffee cake. You know how he loves coffee." He bent to his pet and lifted it onto the ashy countertop. Hòlar chuffed, growled, and hissed his consent.

"Wimoweh a wimoweh a wimoweh, in the bedroom the master bedroom, John Bobbitt sleeps tonight." Iceland sang as he plucked a cleaver out of its holder and, with a wrist flick, plunged the knife into a solid wood cutting board. "And in the kitchen, the downstairs kitchen Lorena has a knife."

Hòlar, smitten by the song, dragged his tongue across the counter and danced in place with barely contained anticipation. Iceland rustled up an ancient tin brownie pan and a set of nesting bowls with a Dark Matter Demon well… nesting in the smallest one. The island nation held the bowl at arm's length as the thing literally boiled with anger and swirled it around and around and around until it transformed from a bona fide Minion of Hades into a shiny, pulpy, slick mess that was the exact consistency and temperature of melted butter. He then dumped it into the pan to disperse. After all, why bother to grease a pan with anything else when demon flesh was ready at hand?

Iceland regarded his progress thus far with a thoughtful 'hmmmm' and a half-cup of suspicion. "What if…" he mused aloud, giving his cheek a few taps, "what if eating a demon makes them sick?" The creature in the pan bubbled treacherously. "Right! Doesn't it say somewhere in the Bible 'Thou shalt chuggeth the pink medicine to be exorcise all evil' or did I just make that up?"

He dashed from the kitchen and returned just as swiftly with a bottle of bismuth subsalicylate or, in English, Pepto Bismol, dumped the majority of it in the baking pan, and drank the rest himself. "And it'll taste sweet, like candy to balance out the bitterness of the coffee!" He reasoned. "Now what actually goes in a cake?"

Hólar snapped back to life with a froghop as a tiny ball of fire flitted over his head and puffed out just as suddenly. The demonic version of a light bulb, if you will. He smiled a gruesome, wet smile like a rabid but lazy St. Bernard with a sinus infection, and wiggled his way into the upper reaches of Iceland's cupboards. After a few seconds of hardcore sleuthing, Hólar unearthed a rock-hard box of vanilla cake mix, used coffee grounds, and for some reason, some nuts and avalanched the whole shebang right on his master's head. About the nuts: these were not chestnuts, peanuts, or hazelnuts, but actual nuts. Nuts as in nuts and bolts and screws. Hardware. Metal. A little harder to chew.

Iceland shielded his hair. He knew his skull could handle the punishment easily enough, but his hair he just washed. The sparkly nation let the flurry of stuff to the ground. He waved a thank you to his pet, gathered the goods and dumped the contents, sans waxed cardboard and plastic, wholesale into the pan. Including the nuts. Because who doesn't need more iron in their diet?

Then the dark matter demon worked its black magic baking power. Shadowy, wispy tendrils snaked their way through the hodgepodge of what was technically food in its younger days like lava through rock. And Iceland watched with ever widening eyes and smiles as the mix liquefied and marbled and baked on demon power. As time passed the cake turned into a horrorcaffeinerific mess. But wait. Horrorcaffeinerific is not a real adjective. Or even a word, for that matter. The coffee grounds made it look like a block of peat. The nuts made it shine. The cake looked awful.

"Cake or death? How about cake AND death!" Iceland left the black square to cool in the windowsill. The smoke twisted off the surface of the cake like ash from a pyroclastic flow in the shape of a goat's skull.

_More to come..._


	3. The Zero Hour

If last year was The bestest Norway had. This year had the premise of being the worstest. A party destined to be so awful, there was a need to use fake words to describe its sheer awfulness. Bad party, bad English. Seems fair.

The atmosphere of the party, at best, was uncomfortable and, at worst, the most awkward situation the boys could picture themselves in while still remaining sober and clothed.

Norway had turned yet another year older, yet looked none worse for it. And yet again, had received a plethora of gifts, including a blue and yellow microscopic thong paired with a French maid outfit from Finland. The look on the taciturn nation's face indicated the gift was given in error and to suggest otherwise would mean a date with his knife, so the others kept their comments and theories to themselves. However, it was Iceland's contribution to the festivities that took the cake. Literally…

Normally, the celebration was held indoors, to avoid the brisk northern breezes. However, thanks to global warming, the weather was pleasant enough this year to spend the afternoon in the yard amongst some early blooming wildflowers. So there they sat around a worn picnic bench covered in a checkered tablecloth. Most of the savory d'œuvres had long since found their way into the stomachs of the partygoers and all that remained was Iceland's undisturbed cake. Yup. The five of them plus a cake hanging out. The aforementioned island sat proud as a preening puffin that all the attention was on his gift. The best gift. It still smoldered as if it had been pulled from a volcano moments prior, and the top still shined black as Antarctic tundra in winter. Questions, thanks to Sweden, were piling up hard and fast.

"Is it a chocolate lava cake?"

"No. There's not lava in it. That would make it inedible." Iceland said, pleased.

"Then how is it so black? Did you cover it with fondant?" Sweden persisted.

"What's fondant?"

"Maybe not..." Sweden snatched a metal spoon from a nearby table. "Did you leave it in the oven too long then? It's still smoking."

"No. I made it yesterday, so it's only a little over room temperature. My cake just happens to be so cool that it's still hot!"

Sweden adjusted his glasses with gusto, as if preparing to do some great deed the others were too cowed to perform themselves. All things told, that was the truth of the matter. He inched the spoon ever closer to the cake but gave pause when the utensil melted due to heat radiating off the surface. Sweden admired the remnants of the spoon ball in his fist and sat back down.

"It looks like it was baked by someone really important, don't you think?" Iceland snapped up and shooed Sweden away from the cake. "Finland, pass me your knife so I can cut it."

Finland bared his teeth and tensed. He clutched his weapon protectively and shot Iceland a look that said 'I'm selling ass kicking and you're about buy one!' No words needed. As usual, Sweden stepped up to diffuse the uneasiness.

"We're being so terribly rude." He said robotically. "It's Norway's birthday, who are we to deprive him the honor and privilege of the first cut in _his _cake."

And all eyes drifted expectantly to Norway, who only nodded dumbly. "I have an idea. I'll be right back." He declared and then rose to leave.

Denmark, who'd managed to keep uncharacteristically quiet during this whole ordeal, finally opened his mouth. First to take a long, long swallow of beer; second, to scold Iceland. "Do you remember our conversation at all yesterday? The one where I asked you not to do anything weird for this party?"

"You're not the boss of me anymore!" Iceland quipped. He made one final half-hearted appeal to Finland for the knife, but ultimately deemed it best to hunch his shoulders in a sulking fashion. "Besides, how can you even call it weird when you haven't even tried it yet?"

"I'm not going to try it. It looks terrible." Denmark countered.

"You don't worry about how it looks. You just stick it in your mouth." Iceland said.

"No way." Denmark said. "Last time I heard that it turned into an STD scare."

"Hey!" Iceland hoped he sounded more offended than whiny. "What the hell? It's just my cake. Right, Sweden?"

"Uh…" Thankfully for Sweden's ability to maintain social graces where none otherwise exist, Norway returned dragging a sizable hatchet in his wake.

"Sorry guys. I had to dig this out of the shed." Norway gestured with his head back at the weapon.

"A meat cleaver would've done it, probably. An axe seems like overkill…" Iceland said, pouting.

"Doubtful." Norway hefted the axe over his shoulder one-handed, in a display of great fortitude. The others, hearing the implicit command, scattered like bugs from a picnic.

Once they resettled at a safe distance, Norway brought his weapon down blade first on the cake with punishing wrath. The impact was enough to dent the cake and shake Norway to his core.

"Damn, this will be great exercise for your jaws!" Iceland clapped with joyous anticipation.

Norway coughed uncomfortably and swung again. The cake splintered like an ancient tree stump and the pan containing it shattered. On the third strike, the table was cleaved in two, as was Iceland's baking experiment from hell.

The five admired the fragments of cake (and wood and fabric and glass) that littered the intentionally overgrown grass. Finland ventured forward first and grabbed a hunk of the ashen bread that spit smoke in his face. He dropped it with numerous hushed 'perkeles' and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

"What in hell did you put in it?" Sweden asked aghast.

"What in hell indeed." Norway muttered.

Denmark, with the skill of a troubadour, covertly volunteered to fetch a garbage bag and hop on a computer to locate a competent local bakery, but Iceland heard the words 'garbage bag' and 'birthday cake' in the same sentence and correctly assumed the worst. After more than a few snotty objections, Denmark conceded, stating he wouldn't throw the cake away, but merely collect it for later consumption and leave it to rot in Norway's kitchen until someone else had a better idea. After all, it was only fair that the birthday boy should enjoy the bulk of it himself. When Iceland was sated with that explanation, Denmark stated he'd stash the cake somewhere safe in Norway's fridge. Ten or so tense yet uneventful minutes passed when Denmark finally returned from the kitchen.

"I got some news guys. Something happened in Norway's kitchen." Denmark said.

"What did you to do it?" Iceland said, accusing.

"I accidentally had sex with it. Now no one has to eat it."

Finland, Sweden, and Norway all shared a rare group hug with Denmark.

"Don't worry. I won't let it go to waste. The demons will be happy to have the leftovers." Iceland followed the path into Norway's kitchen, opened a window to air out the smoke generated by the cake remnants and located some sturdy Tupperware so that he might take it all back home. As he scraped it off the counter and into the container, his spirits sank to a low lower than the lowest valley. He paused in his efforts to instead eavesdrop on the conversation drifting from the yard and through the window.

"Holy mackerel, what did try to do to us?" Norway painstakingly straightened a crooked finger in the direction of the kitchen. And then it only got worse…

"He needs to be arrested for slander against baked goods." Denmark chimed in.

"I would die twice if I ate one slice."

A chorus of laughter.

"Nice, Sweden. Did you intend for that to rhyme?"

"I did spend a few minutes thinking about it, yes."

"When he told me to just eat it, I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but that's where all his friends live!"

Finland gestured something.

More explosive laughter followed by Norway's sympathetic and mildly guilty response. "Aw, Finland. That was mean."

"Yeah, but you still laughed." Sweden said.

"I didn't say it wasn't funny. I said it was mean." Norway said.

Iceland admired his sugary delicacy. Even the Tupperware containing it melted in protest. Carefully, very carefully, he plucked a crumb and dropped it on his tongue. Of course, it tasted nothing like normal cake, but like an earthy bitter with a hint of wormwood. It tasted like the palatable version of an angel sounding the trumpet before the apocalypse hit earth in full force. A perfect last meal for everyone on the face of the planet. And it only caused six blisters on his tongue. Nothing they couldn't at least pretend to like. He swapped the Tupperware for a garbage bag.

He considered beating a hastily and clandestine exit, but he couldn't. Not on Norway's birthday. So, cake in hand, he bravely trekked back to the others as they wallowed in mirth. The stifled laughter stabbed him harder than any sharp rock he'd parachuted on top of.

"What?" He growled in their general direction.

"Whoa, what's your problem?" Sweden said.

"Yeah," Denmark added. "A troll crawl up your ass on the way to the kitchen?"

"I'll tell you what my problem is!" Iceland tossed his head like an angry horse and shook a few sparkles to the ground. They became indistinguishable from the broken pan. "I spent all yesterday afternoon making something special for _my_ brother and the most thanks I get is my friends insulting me behind my back. Have any of you thought for just one damn second that sometimes, it's just as enjoyable to give a gift as receive one? That maybe you should just shut your mouths and accept it gratefully? I'm leaving. Happy birthday, Norway."

"Iceland wait-" Norway called.

But the other country had already hotfooted off. He brooded all the way home. Luckily for other drivers he wasn't prone to road rage, because who has the money to replace a wrecked car?

When he made it back to his cute little country home, he dropped his culinary fail at the front door to let his pets feast. He stomped to his radio, blasted Bjork's latest album, and finally slumped in a fetal position against a wall in his phallus museum right next to a donkey specimen.

Not even being in a room full of penises could cheer him up.

_More to come..._


End file.
